laughter,

To fitful song and jest,

To moods of soberness as idle, after,
And silences, as idle too as the rest.

But when at last upon their way returning,

Taciturn, late, and loath, Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning,

They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both.

Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish

Such as but women know

That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish,

And what they would, would rather they would not so;

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Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a look Such as no dainty pen of gold Would write of in a Fairy Book.

So bent she almost crouched, her face Was like the Sphinx's face, to me, Touched with vast patience, desert grace, And lonesome, brooding mystery.

What wonder that a faith so strong

As hers, so sorrowful, so still, Should watch in bitter sands so long, Obedient to a burdening will!

This Princess was a Slave, -like one
Yet free enough to see the sun,
I read of in a painted tale;

And all the flowers, without a vail.

hending

Of all the wondrous guile That women won win themselves with, and bending

Eyes of relentless asking on her the while,

"Ah, if beyond this gate the path united Our steps as far as death, And I might open it!" affrighted

His voice,

At its own daring, faltered under his

breath.

She was the Slave of Slavery.
Court-lace nor jewels had she seen:

That at her side the whitest queen
She wore a precious smile, so rare
Were dark, her darkness was so fair.

Nothing of loveliest loveliness

This strange, sad Princess seemed to lack; Majestic with her calm distress

She was, and beautiful though black:

enchanted

Far beyond words to tell,

Feeling her woman's finest wit had

wanted

The art he had that knew to blunder so well

In some vague Giant's tower of air, Built higher than her hope was. But The True Knight came and found her there.

ing,

"Shall we not be too late

For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking: Yes, thanks, your arm. -open the gate?"

And will you

The cruel blackness shrank and fell.

Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep,
He took her with him through the night,
And swam a River cold and deep,

And vanished up an awful Height.

She doubted, once upon a time,

Because it took away her sight, She looked and said, "There is no light!" It was thine eyes, poor Italy! That knew not dark apart from bright.

This flame which burnt for Italy,

It would not let her haters sleep. They blew at it with angry breath, And only fed its upward leap, And only made it hot and deep.

Its burning showed us Italy, And all the hopes she had to keep.

This light is out in Italy,

Her eyes shall seek for it in vain! For her sweet sake it spent itself,

Too early flickering to its wane, Too long blown over by her pain. Bow down and weep, O Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again!

UNAWARES.

THE wind was whispering to the vines
The secret of the summer night;
The tinted oriel window gleamed
But faintly in the misty light;
Beneath it we together sat
In the sweet stillness of content.

Till from a slow-consenting cloud
Came forth Diana, bright and bold,
And drowned us, ere we were aware,
In a great shower of liquid gold;
And, shyly lifting up my eyes,
I made acquaintance with your face.

And sudden something in me stirred,
And moved me to impulsive speech,
With little flutterings between,
And little pauses to beseech,
From your sweet graciousness of mind,
Indulgence and a kindly ear.

Ah! glad was I as any bird
That softly pipes a timid note,
To hear it taken up and trilled
Out cheerily by a stronger throat,
When, free from discord and constraint,
Your thought responded to my thought.

I had a carven missal once,
With graven scenes of "Christ, his Woe."
One picture in that quaint old book
Will never from my memory go,

Though merely in a childish wise
I used to search for it betimes.
It showed the face of God in man
Abandoned to his watch of pain,
And given of his own good-will
To every weaker thing's disdain;
But from the darkness overhead
Two pitying angel eyes looked down.

How often in the bitter night
Have I not fallen on my face,
Too sick and tired of heart to ask
God's pity in my grievous case;
Till the dank deadness of the dark,
Receding, left me, pitiless.

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love, I fell.

Love brought me down to death, and

death to Hell.

[U. S. A.]

ON THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
IT chanceth once to every soul,
Within a narrow hour of doubt and dole,
Upon Life's Bridge of Sighs to stand,
A palace and a prison on each hand.
O palace of the rose-heart's hue!
How like a flower the warm light falls
from you!

O prison with the hollow eyes!
Beneath your stony stare no flowers arise.

O palace of the rose-sweet sin!
How safe the heart that does not enter in!

O blessed prison-walls! how true
The freedom of the soul that chooseth
you!